It's the Law!

I appreciate the need for certain rules of order in our modern society. If some things were left to choice, anarchy might prevail and all would be lost in senseless revolution.

That's why I'm happy for the simple rules that guide our daily existence.

Like the fact that it is required by law that the song We Are the Champions necessarily follow We Will Rock you on every radio station on Earth. Can you imagine if this were not so? Traffic would grind to a halt as drivers in the millions would be shattered emotionally. Civilization would grind to a halt! Madness would prevail and we'd be reduced to a nomad society where might makes right and lives would be worth less than a full tank of gasoline and Mel Gibson would be our only way to Fiji.

That's just too much to contemplate.

Thank, classic rock stations, for keeping that from happening!

Schizophonia!

It strikes me that where there is money to be made there is always someone lined up to profit off someone's misery.

It further strikes me that I may be one such person.

The prominence of jackasses wandering around with Bluetooth earpieces for their cell phones -particularly in Wal*Mart, accessorizing a snazzy pink, stretched-to-the-breaking-point spandex, or on the ears of loud-mouthed show-offs in front of me in the checkout '1-8 items' lane of the grocery store (with their Audi TT and their Tommy Hilfiger man-capri pants, you know who I'm talkin' 'bout!)- makes me long for the day when people just used cell phones so you wouldn't have to stop and wonder if the guy talking to himself was actually talking to himself or not. Remember the days when you'd see someone jabbering to himself and you'd know that he or she was a little off? It was like nature's way of saying "Heads up; shit may or may not go down." Nowadays, you have to stop and pay attention to see if the guy's actually got a phone of some kind.

The line between mental illness and being a jerk is getting blurred and, to be fair, I have more sympathy for those who are mentally ill. At least they have an excuse. What's yours, Ms. Decaf-half-soy-non-fat-ristretto-with-Splenda?

In fact, to help out those who have mental illness of the kind that makes one prone to outbursts in the street or prolonged conversations with people I can't see, I would like to start a business. For particularly aware schizophrenics who are aware that, for whatever reason, those around them don't see the lizard people that talk to you daily, I would like to start manifacturing and distributing fake Bluetooth headsets.

All you have to do is slap one on your ear and Presto! you're not crazy anymore, you're just a jerk with a Bluetooth! I know, crazy street people: it is a bit demeaning to have to pretend you're a Bluetooth loser, but it's a small price to pay to be able to really get into conversations with angels in the food court without having some damned security guard interrupting you every fifteen minutes.

Life imitates (ostensible) art

Here are two commercials to watch.



Okay, so far so good, assuming you're into facial filling make-up. To be honest, I watched this with the sound off, so I know nothing about the product. I can only assume it's some kind of jelly that makes your face look chubby. In all fairness, Chub-gel probably wouldn't sell as well.

Or is it?

What I know for sure is that it bares a startling similarity to a fictional product I have seen before.

Submitted for your review and comparison:



Holy shit!

It's at times like this that you realize how hopelessly out of touch most cosmetics companies are with the modern horror movies (shocking, I know). Surely, at least one person at Avon must have said "hey guys, this new product is great and all, but you do realize that we've designed it to look almost exactly like a zombie-making virus from a series of horror movies and games, right? Guys?"

At this point, the lone voice of dissent was no doubt introduced to the labs in the secret sub-basement at Avon-- the labs where the zombies are stored. Of course they don't do animal testing; zombie testing is much more reliable!

Hi, my name is Knuckles.

I'm a heroine addict.

It was innocent enough, in the beginning. I found a discarded poster of Princess Leia, one day after school, and brought it home with me. My friends thought it was cool. I loved the adulation of my peers, and I needed to do more to keep it up. They'd egg me on; they convinced me to start reading Wonder Woman.

Well, then I was Mr. Popular. We'd have parties and someone would always start passing around the Batgirl. My wife was always trying to be understanding, but I hid how often I was using. It was a downward spiral of Black Canary, Ms. Marvel, and Lara Croft.

Before I knew it, my wife left me when she found Ellen Ripley stashed under our mattress.

Life of a Chocolate Addict

I bought some new hot chocolate. How was I to know it would change my life?


At first, I thought 'hey, this stuff looks good.' It seemed innocuous enough, in it's little brown tin, with simple green patterns. The ingredients: dark chocolate, sugar, salt, nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and pepper. It was enough of a subtle twist that I was hooked.


Hooked. Huh. I used to use the word as a joke. Hooked on comics, hooked on zombie movies, hooked on crystal meth-- always light-hearted and comical.


I tried the hot chocolate and it was good. It was smooth, chocolaty, and most of all, it triggered a catastrophic addiction. Y'see, I thought it said to add 3 tsp of chocolate to my 6 oz. cup. I liked it, and felt warm surges of ecstasy under my skin. Then I reread the package to discover it actually read 3 tbsp per cup! Naturally, I wanted the full effect- nay, needed the full effect. And that's when it all started. It seduced my senses, left me a gibbering puddle of flesh in my chair. (My co-workers were remarkably understanding, and didn't feel compelled to help in any way whatsoever.)

That was when I decided to leave my wife and run away with my hot chocolate. I know, deep down, that eventually my chocolate will run out on me. Sure, I'll try to find it again, but it's a weird foreign brand and I'm not sure I'll be able to. I'll eventually try the next fancy hot chocolate to come along, then the next, then the next, in an ever-worsening spiral of chocolaty self-destruction.

Next thing you know, I'll be snorting raw cocoa-- freebasing Ecuador 80% Dark. My family will try to hold an intervention, and my wife, tearful, will ask me to leave chocolate and come back home.

At first, I'll try, thinking maybe, just maybe I can do it, but fearing deep down that one day, the Cocoa Dragon will have me again. Sure, my confidence will be boosted the first time I pass by Laura Secord or Godiva stores, and I'll think 'you know what? I can do this.' But then the first time it gets too hard, I'll be back on the street, probably on Hallowe'en. The cravings will have gotten too bad, and I'd be looking for the biggest fix of all, only to be lost in a sea of milk chocolate and dark cocoa.

Seriously, though, if you can find Chuao Chocolatiers' Winter Hot Chocolate? I heartily recommend it. And I'll reserve a place for you in choco-rehab.

www.howdoigetmyheadoutofthisthing.com

Day 1: After the initial flush of panic subsided, I have determined that my first fears were correct: my head is indeed firmly stuck in this thing.

Day 2: Calling for help has done me no good. I spent most of the day, gently tapping and sounding out any weak points in this thing. There appear to be none. There is a slimy patch, though, which I regret having touched in the first place. I've made a mental note of that spot, in order to avoid it in the future.

Day 3: The peculiar sensation of being watched came over me today. I suspect that someone is out there, simply watching me as I blunder about with my head caught in this thing. They don't answer me when I ask for help. Did they put this thing on my head? I must investigate further.

Day 4: Is someone cooking bacon?

Day 5: I have stubbed my toe. Curious, though, is the fact that whatever it was, against which I stubbed my toe, cried out in pain. My suspicions of being watched have been confirmed. Whoever I kicked did not answer when I asked if he was all right. So I called him a jerk and tried to kick him again. I missed.

Day 6: Is this just a large vase? I think it might be. It's pretty durable, but thus far I have resisted punching myself in the head or slamming my skull against the floor to try and break it. I am quite hungry, now, and fear the corner of the room will no longer be habitable since I could not find anything that felt like a bathroom.

Day 7: I woke up this morning to see a crack of light. It seems the vase in which my head had become stuck was broken a bit by a fit in my restless sleep. I dreamt of dancing through a field with this thing stuck on my head. I could see, though, and the thing had become part of me. Upon seeing the crack of light, I rejoiced and cried out huzzah! Someone shushed me, citing that the game was on. I immediately set about tapping the crack with my knuckles until it widened. Eventually, the whole vase fell to pieces and I was free.

Day 8: It was explained to me that I drank too much, and upon being dared to stick my head into a vase, I did so with no thought to how I might extricate myself once thus inserted. I was the subject of laughter for some time before I ceased being humourous. That no one made any move to help me in the following week is a cause for some concern.

Day 9: Thinking of my dream, I have begun to miss my vase.

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Paranoid Delusionals

It turns out that Phil has been in the Army... the Chinese Army where, as best I can glean from so many Chinese movies, all soldiers are trained in mystical kung fu, capable of short range flight, and possessed of golden magical energy. It now seems that my idea to have planked him in the back of the head while sneaking by his desk may have been ill-advised. I blame you for this, Sam. You should have known better than to let me run off, half-cocked, or even one-third-cocked as it turned out.

I've made a peace offering, a gift basket of assorted jams, and I think everything will work out fine between us. Especially once the psychotropics in the jam start to take effect.

The whole situation has taught me an important lesson, though. It's made me realize that I am physically weak, and have a phobic aversion to pain. I once fainted while watching someone cook chicken in the microwave; that's how ridiculous my fear of hurt is. You'd think that would have taught me the lesson long ago, but for the purposes of this story, it did not.

My mind is my strength, as sad a statement as that is, and I shall endeavor to rely on it in all future battles. Until my inevitable telekinesis manifests, this means I will become a planner, a schemer, an office Machiavelli. Instead of challenging the next Phil directly, I shall manipulate my co-workers to do it for me. I shall be unstoppable.

Unless I am stopped, somehow.

The Game Begins

I have difficulty with the idea of having a desk near the bathroom door. I was lucky this time, and I didn't have to bite that bullet. The bullet was instead bitten by Phil. He isn't our resident bullet biter by any means, so this seems an odd place to put him.

I do notice that he nods and speaks to me when I go by, though. It's as though he's documenting my bathroom habits. Perhaps he's been put there by The Man, whose name is Gord, to keep me "down" somehow.

I like being able to go to the bathroom unnoticed. It adds a layer of mystery that is comfortable for me. Like, 'where has kingmonkey gone?' 'I don't know'. That's better than 'where has kingmonkey gone?' 'To the bathroom, he's been in their for seven minutes, and this is his third trip to the bathroom today.'

Clearly, I must devise an alternate means of reaching the bathroom unnoticed. Perhaps if I slide along the office floor, wearing strips of carpet as camouflage. I can wait until he's doing credit card reconciliation and dart into the men's room. That'll screw up his precious surveillance, won't it?

Alternately, I may hit him in the head with a plank, from behind.

I'll be sure to document the results of whichever plan I enact. Stay tuned, and know that I am fighting for your rights.

Somehow.